Tuesday, November 29, 2016

The
Man Who Wasn't There is the second book in my Miracle,
Mississippi Series. He Thought He Saw (2012 NaNo) is book one.

Brian
called 9-1-1, but the line was busy. Yelling at Romeo, he finally got
the other boy's attention. "There are people trapped in here.
They're hurt. Find help!"

Romeo
dashed off. Some of the boys on the cheerleading squad ran over.
Brian activated the flashlight app on his phone and led them into the
dilapidated shed.

"We're
in here," the girl called. "Please, help."

"Coming!"
He turned to the boys. "Okay, the roof collapsed and the wall
caved in. There are people trapped. Can you handle this?"

The
boys shrugged, nodding.

"People
need help," one of them replied. "I can handle anything."

Slowly,
Brian opened the door. It swung toward him, sagging on the hinges,
squawking like an angry goose. Brian shown his light in the entrance.
He saw the wall with the boy holding it. He looked ready to fall
down. A row of roofing nails were embedded in his thigh. Blood had
pooled at his feet. It took longer to find the girl. She was
partially buried under the wall. She was pale and afraid, but was
alert.

"Better
not to move her," Brian told the boys. "But let's shore up
the wall and roof. What's your name?" he asked the young man.

The
other two boys were busily trying to move the book shelf, only to
find it was attached to the wall. Brian spotted a line of file
cabinets. He told the other boys to get that. Ripping off his shirt,
he tore the cloth into strips and bound up the leg wound. Noel was in
a bad way. The blood seeped slowly and he shook with the strain of
holding the wall. Once that was done tying up the wound, Brian found
a place to stand by the other boy and took the weight of the wall on
his own back, pushing with his powers.

Justin
and Flynn moved the file cabinets into place, taking the weight from
Brian and Noel. They lifted Noel and set him aside. He screamed in
pain as they moved his injured leg. Both of them apologized as the
lowered him to the floor. Keeping the force going, Brian eased out
from under the wall and went to sit by Trista. She was pale, clammy.
He didn't dare move any of the rubble without help. Depending on her
injuries, she might be alive only because the debris acted like a
tourniquet.

"Help's
coming, honey. Hang in there."

"Where's
Noel?"

"Here,
baby. I'm okay."

Justin
had added strips of his shirt to Noel's leg. Moving him had started
the bleeding again. He fashioned a tourniquet with that and a Bic
pen. It wasn't ideal, but it would hold until help arrived. A
pounding of feet outside heralded the arrival of the emergency team.

Romeo
stood outside, panting. "Sorry it took so long. The courtyard is
blocked. We had to go around."

"Thanks,"
Brian said. "Trista's in a bad way," he told the EMT. "I
have no idea what's going on under there. I didn't try to move her.
We had to get Noel out from under the wall. It was ready to collapse
and so was he."

Brian
knew she was in bad shape. He could sense that one lung was on the
verge of collapse and she had internal injuries. She had a spinal
fracture and a compound fracture of the left femur. The knowledge
wasn't from his own mind. He could hear someone else's voice in his
head telling him.

"I
think she has a spinal injury," he said aloud. "And her
lung is collapsing."

Thursday, November 24, 2016

Rain
fell in endless sheets, hammering against the windshield. Wiper
blades on high couldn't keep up, clearing a patch here and there,
only to fill immediately with droplets. Ironically, the morning
forecast had called for sunshine and partly cloudy skies with a 20%
chance of rain. That 20% was currently drowning the landscape. Wipers
raced, water slashed against the bottom of the car as it sliced
through puddles on the interstate. Drainage ditches couldn't keep up
with the rainfall. Already, a foot of water stood at the sides of the
road.

Division
Bell by Pink Floyd, blared from the speakers. One reason Blythe
Donovan had purchased the car, was the superior sound system. Okay,
it was the main reason, but she told her friends it was
because of the fantastic mileage. Wanting to hear Marooned
again, Blythe tapped the button to take her back to the beginning.
Her eyes left the road for less than 10 seconds. Movement and a flash
of tail lights greeted her startled eyes. Ahead of her, the cars had
slowed to a crawl. The sky chose that moment to open further, dumping
gallons of water on the already sodden land.

"Oh,
God! Help me!"

She
watched the tail lights of the car ahead of her, get closer. Foot
firmly on the brake, she panicked, trying to turn her car off the
road. The steering wheel didn't respond as the car hydroplaned on the
accumulated water. She saw a trailer hitch as she plowed into the
rear end of a pickup. Time ran in slow motion. She saw the vehicles
collide. There was a sickening crunch of metal, glass flew, air bags
exploded from the console. The seat belt snapped into action, rubbing
brutally across her collarbone. Smoke filled the car as she shuddered
to an unsteady halt. Terrified by the smoke and noises, she struggled
with her belt and car door.

The
other vehicle rolled off the road, but her poor mangled car wasn't
going anywhere. Cars surged around her as she fumbled with her
telephone. She knew someone had probably already called in the
accident, but that was what people did, right? The dispatcher
answered and she burst into tears.

"I
ran into someone. My car is broken."

"Calm
down, miss. It's all right. We've already had a report. An officer is
on the way. Try to stay calm. Are you hurt?"

"I
don't think so."

"Can
you move your vehicle?"

"Not
by myself."

"Help
is on the way. Stay out of the road."

"Okay."

The
smoke thickened in the car. Blythe coughed, waving it away. Someone
tapped on her passenger side window.

"Are
you okay?" a young woman asked.

"I
think so."

"You
need to get out of there," a man said from the driver's side.
"Let's get it moved off the road. Can you help push?"

She
nodded.

"Put
the car in neutral, miss. You steer."

She
did as she was told, foolishly keeping her foot on the brake. The man
glanced at her feet as he tried to push and the car wouldn't move.

"Need
to take your foot off the brake," he teased, flashing a toothy,
white grin.

"Sorry.
I'm sorry."

"It's
okay." His black hair was plastered to his head by the rain. He
had a kind demeanor, with a nose that was a little too large for the
rest of his face. "You need to get out of there," he said
as the car rolled to a stop. "Make sure the engine is off."

"Okay."

"Can
you stand? You're not pinned?"

"No.
I'm okay."

He
pulled the door open. It was bent and dented by the impact. It took a
moment for him to get it wide enough for her to exit.

"You'd
better get your things," the young woman suggested.

"Oh,
sure."

"You
can come sit in my car when you're done," she offered.

"Thank
you."

"And
get some pictures for your insurance agent."

Blythe
fumbled a few seconds with her phone, trying to focus on the wreck.
Her long, brown hair was plastered to her head by the rain. Her hands
shook as she took her pictures. It made her sick to look at her car.
An EMT in full rain gear, approached her.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Dellani and Christina are delighted to welcome back two fantastic authors, and greet a new one. Please make note of the time slots so you won't miss your favorite author! Whit: 4:00 to 4:40, Brian: 4:40 to 5:20, Gary: 5:20 to 6:00

First up is our pal Whit McClendon, author of Mage's Burden and Gart's Road. Whit will be on from 4 to 4:40 to chat about his work.

Second is newcomer, Brian Briscoe, author of The Conflict Etiquette Handbook: The Art of Behaving Well in the Midst of Conflict and Juke: A Blues Novel. Brian will be on from 4:40 to 5:20.

Third, our buddy Gary D. Henry, author of In the Manor of Heather Black, Falling Waters, Witchwoods, and more. Gary will come on from 5:20 to 6:00

We look forward to chatting with each of our authors. As always, dust off your speakers, kick back with your favorite beverage and enjoy the show!

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Wind
whispered in the trees and dried leaves clattered in its wake. An owl
hooted. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. The
full moon seemed to follow him as he walked down the road alone. The
wind became voices. The leaves, the dry rattle of old bones. The
sighing grew louder and Brian was able to pick out words. At least,
he thought they were words, but in a language he couldn't understand.

Increasing
his pace, he glanced over his shoulder. Wispy figures gathered in the
tree line around the swamp road, moving slowly and steadily toward
him. Brian tried to convince himself it was only his imagination, but
it felt far too real.

One
of the figures approached at a slow, loping run. Brian could hear the
heavy, measured footfalls as it lumbered toward him. He completely
lost his cool. Roaring loudly, he ran at the figure, dodging away
when it grabbed at him. Chilling wind passed as the figure drifted
away, dissipating as it headed to the woods on the other side of the
road.

Brian
ran along the center of the road, frightened by his encounter with
the wraith. More of them gathered in the swampy woodland, but no
others were bold enough to approach him. Hearing a twig snap to his
left, Brian put on a burst of speed. With a cry of fear, he felt a
shove at his back and tripped over his own feet. As he fell, he saw
the wraiths grow bolder. They moved in unison, swooping toward him.
Terrified, Brian lay on his belly, unsure how to combat them.

A
solid form burst out of the bushes. A large dog stood over Brian,
growling and barking. It took a moment for him to realize that the
wraiths halted. Some tried to go a step or two further, but the dog
renewed its attack. One by one the ghosts dispersed, melting into the
fog once more.

Brian
let his breath out slowly. The animal stood over him, but moved aside
as he sat up. It was the biggest dog Brian had ever seen, broad
through the chest with powerful legs and a ridge of hair down his
spine. It looked silver in the moonlight.

He
got up, dusting himself off. Leaves stuck to his body, mud caked
every inch of him. Twigs and more leaves adorned his closely cropped
hair. Getting his bearings, he headed toward home once more. The dog
walked with him, her head under his hand. Her tongue lolled and she
looked as if she were laughing at his appearance.

"You
take a header into a mud puddle and see how good you look."

The
dog barked gleefully. She dashed ahead, sniffed and snorted, before
trotting back to his side. She stayed with him until they reached his
home. With a yip, she left him, drifting into the woods. The front
door fell shut with a comforting bump behind him. Heaving a sigh of
relief, Brian locked and bolted the door. He leaned against it,
panting. His hands shook and he felt light headed. His heart thumped
so hard in his chest, he could hear it in his ears.

He
slowly made his way upstairs, wishing his mother were home. Being
home alone had never bothered him before, but he felt vulnerable,
isolated. Brian hadn't realized quite how dirty he was until he saw
himself in the bathroom mirror. He stripped off his filthy clothing
and dropped it on the bottom of the shower. He hoped he could get
some of the trash off it before putting it in the laundry.

The
water ran black as he washed himself and his clothing. He picked up
twigs and leaves as he bathed. Afterward, he scooped up handfuls of
debris, dropping it in the garbage. His clothing, he placed in the
sink to drain as he dressed. As he lugged the basket of wet clothing
downstairs to the basement, he saw what a mess he'd left when he'd
come in. The white curtain over the front window was caked with dirt.
A muddy trail led up his mother's clean, wooden steps.

He
descended to the basement quickly and tried not to think about his
experience in the woods. It still scared him, even though he was safe
in his home. He'd never particularly liked the basement and his
recent scare made it worse. He threw his clothing into the washer,
added soap and took the stairs to the kitchen two at a time.

Cleaning
up his mess kept his mind off what had happened. Strange things had
been happening to him for weeks, getting weirder and spookier by the
minute. At first, he'd passed it off as stress. It was apparent that
his stress level had very little to do with the events of the night
He'd been coming home from a friend's house after a Halloween party.

Chase
lived on the other side of the tiny, Mississippi town. The quickest
way home was to cut through the woods that skirted the swamp. Brian
had taken that route on foot or on his bike a million times with no
problem. So why was tonight different? Because, tonight something had
changed. He couldn't put a finger on it, would never have been able
to explain it in words, but he knew it as surely as he knew his own
name.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Ralan
stormed out of the house, slamming the solid wood door with a
satisfying thunk. He left too precipitously, without his coat,
and it was considerably colder outside than it had been earlier in
the day. His long hair still damp, he got chilly before he got
halfway down the long, sloping driveway. He wanted a walk, somewhere
there were no other people. He was furious and needed a chance to
calm down.

Footsteps
slapping on the pavement behind him made him slow and turn around.
Daphne was behind him with a jacket. She handed it to him almost
shyly, biting her lower lip. He slipped it on, turning up the collar
against the wind.

"Shit,
it's cold out here!" She hunched into her coat, shivering.

Ralan
put his arms around her, holding her close.

"Are
you going to get into trouble over us?"

"Heard
that, did you?"

"We
all heard. That's a big, open house with great acoustics. Romy
sounded furious."

"He's
not my boss. Unless he rats me out...."

"What
did he mean about me being a witness?"

Wondering
how much he should say, he paused so long she thought he wasn't going
to tell her. Slowly, editing considerably, he told her about his
investigation. She listened carefully, waiting until he was finished
to speak.

"You
were following me? Stalking me?" She shoved away from him.
"Like—a criminal?"

"No,
Daphne. Not like that. I was worried about you. You have no idea what
all's involved here."

"No,
because you've chosen not to tell me. Did it ever occur to you or
your primate buddy that I can help? I'm marginally intelligent. I've
got more than just a great ass and nice tits to recommend me."

"I
never said that, Daphne. I never trivialized you. I can actually have
an intelligent conversation with you. Do you know how rare that is?
Most of the women I know are either married, bimbos or trying like
hell to kill me. I finally met a woman who's none of the above and
you're pissed at me because I was trying to protect you."

"No,
you were investigating me. Admit it. You wanted to know if I
was legit before you deigned to have anything to do with me! So you
wouldn't compromise your case because you fell for the villain. I
hope you're satisfied."

"Daphne,
it wasn't like that."

She
took a step toward him, poking him hard in the chest. "It was
exactly like that."
She turned, stalking away. She'd gone a few steps when she spun
around once more. "Did you do that on purpose?" she
demanded.

"Do
what?"

"That
whole sparing thing in the gym. Did you set me up just to fuck me?"

"I
don't know what you're talking about. I invited you to workout."

"Like
you didn't have it planned all along? Do I look that stupid?"

Ralan
frowned, dark eyes blazing. "At the moment, yeah! It wasn't a
setup, Daphne. It just happened. And it was great! Would I like to do
it again? Yes! And I think you would too."

She
couldn't admit that her body burned for him again. She wanted him
more than she'd ever wanted any man in her life. Having him once
wasn't enough. She needed him over and over before she could possibly
be satisfied.

"Don't
flatter yourself," she sneered. She continued her angry journey
toward the house.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Connor
met Shel Petry, his assistant, Henrietta Carter and the leading man
and woman, the ever popular power couple, Joshua Cohen and Amanda
Pennant.

They
arrived with an entourage of photographers and bodyguards.
Fortunately, the condo catered to high profile clients and the
riffraff were soon sorted out and disposed of. However, that still
meant two photographers and the assistants for Cohen and Pennant. In
other words, way more people than Connor felt up to dealing with.

Determined
to make a good impression, he led the group through the condo to the
beach outside. The beach front was beautiful. The waves crashed
nicely against the shore, the sand was white and clean looking, the
expanse of beach wider than some. Once Petry saw it, he realized that
Kent had the right idea. They were busily discussing the action of
the scene, experimenting with angles and taking all kinds of
publicity photos when Connor grabbed at his chest, gasping. They
vaguely registered a cracking sound as he fell.

He
stumbled into Petry and Carter, knocking Josh Cohen aside as he fell.
Henrietta took one look at the crimson stain spreading over his
pristine white chest and let out a piercing scream. A second cracking
sound and the sand at Joshua's feet exploded.

Chaos
ensued. Everyone on the beach ran in a different direction. Shel
Petry had enough wherewithal to call the police. Henrietta Carter
pressed her scarf against Connor's wound. The leading man, Cohen,
added his shirt, holding the exit wound on Connor's back.

Amanda
Pennant screamed hysterically until she realized no one was paying
any attention to her, so she fainted. It might have played better if
she hadn't rearranged her legs so they weren't sprawled open after
she fell.

Beach
Patrol arrived, followed by the ambulance. Two paramedics ran across
the sand and did whatever they could to stabilize Connor for
transport. They carried him to the ambulance and took him to the
hospital, a semi-hysterical Henrietta with him. She refused to leave
his side.

An
EMT administered smelling salts to Amanda. The police arrived a few
minutes later and started rounding up witnesses, but it was an
impossible task. The beach was full of vacationers and residents,
many of whom didn't wish to get involved. The only ones they got a
clear, coherent statement from were a couple from Sweden who were
standing nearby hoping to get an autograph from the actors.

Detective
Vanessa Weinstein came on the scene ten minutes after the shooting.
Aggressive and competitive, she was an up and comer. She knew how to
play the game and used her femininity to her advantage. Dressed in a
black power suit and a very white shirt, she stood out clearly on the
beach. Somehow, in some mysterious way that Walter Scott couldn't
explain, the woman didn't sweat. Her black hair was sleek, unmoving
in the wind off the ocean. Her skin was perfectly dry, not even a
bead of perspiration on her full lips.

"The
rest of Daytona's in hell in this late season heat wave and you stand
there looking like the Sugar Plum Fairy," Scott complained,
wiping his face with a handkerchief.

"Don't
drip in my crime scene," she said in a bored tone. "What's
going on upstairs?"

"Got
two perps, one actual shooter, one decoy. Second guy left his weapon.
Your guy left a shell casing. Looks like both had the same kind of
gun. No serial numbers on mine."

"Why
would they make it easy? You didn't find my gun, huh?"

"Nope.
But the shell's a 5.56mm, so we're figuring they both had identical
weapons. MSSR."

She
nodded, taking a sip of hot coffee from an insulated mug. Scott
slurped water from a rapidly warming bottle and wiped his brow on his
fist.

"Jeez,
can we at least get outta the sun? I'm gonna fry."

"You
should try getting a tan, Walt."

"I'm
Scottish and Scandinavian, Ness, I don't tan. You could put me out
here all day, I'd burn red as a beet."

"They're
purple." She moved into the shade of a cabana bar where they'd
set up their command center.

"Whatever."

"You
don't look like you'd burn. Got that brown hair and eyes."

"Dad's
a redheaded Highlander, I got his complexion. Tell me something I
need to know, Ness."

"We've
got a bullet."

"Buried
in the sand. I heard."

"And
the victim wasn't supposed to be here."

"What?"

"His
brother was the one with the appointment, not him. Ever heard of Kent
Griswald?"

"Who
hasn't? Man's either a genius or Satan himself—take your pick."

"The
vic is his younger brother, Connor. He took the meeting for Kent—who
had something else to do."

"You're
thinking his brother set him up?"

"Wouldn't
be the first time. Younger brother, hungry for power, steps on the
wrong toes?"

Scott
nodded, thinking. The bartender handed him a glass of ice for his
water. Scott thanked him with a silent nod.

"Doesn't
feel right," he said.

Vanessa
Weinstein shrugged. "Working theory."

"Meaning
you do like and it's what you're going after. Bad way to work, Ness."

"You
aren't the only one who can be right about something, Walter."
She turned from him, heading out to the beach.

Walter
Scott caught her hand. Tugging on her, he brought her back. "Look,
you're a hell of a cop, Nessa. All I'm saying is don't limit your
options. I've seen you do this. You get so focused on one thing, you
miss details. This is a big deal, Nessa. Careers are made or broken
over cases like this."

She
got very quiet, moving closer. "This could buck me to Sergeant."

"Or
bury you. I know you want to advance. Hey, I'd love a promotion. But
take it slow, look at details. Don't miss something that's right in
front of you because it doesn't fit your puzzle."

Second is Canadian writer, CW Lovatt author of And Then it Rained Adventures of Charlie Smithers, Josiah Stubb & Wild Wolf's Twisted Tales

Both authors will discuss their work, inspiration, their writing style and anything else that occurs to the host. As always, expect silliness, hilarity and just plain fun. Join us live from 4 - 6 EASTERN time.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

So,
you want to write. There are a few things you need to know and the
greatest of these is grammar. I'm not saying that you must know how
to parse a noun or diagram a sentence, but as a writer, you do need
to know what's correct and what isn't. Bad grammar isn't something
you can pass off as your writing style. That isn't style, that's
laziness.

Bad
grammar is rampant, even in big name authors' books. The main error
I've spotted is LAY, LAID, LIE. I've mentioned this before, because
it's a biggie and it bugs the ever loving crap out of me. It is so
common place, most people don't even know they are wrong. What's sad,
however, if that their editors don't seem to know either. That's a
sorry commentary on editing. You don't have to know why something is
wrong, in fact, the explanation would confuse us both. Instead, I'm
giving some examples below.

LAY:

She
LAY down on the bed.

He
LAY on the floor.

The
book LAY on the backseat.

LAID:

She
LAID the book on the bed.

He
LAID his head down on the floor.

We
LAID new carpet.

LIE:

Go
LIE on the bed.

Don't
just LIE there.

I'm
going to LIE down.

There
is a trend toward over correcting, as well as avoiding LAID because
of the sexual connotations. If the verb bothers you on some deep,
emotional level, don't use it. If you do use it, use it correctly. If
you aren't certain, ask someone. Ask several someones. Chances are,
they don't know either, so keep asking until someone tells you it's
wrong—they are probably right.

Along
these same lines, a few tips to help you remember the correct use of
a few simple words:

There's
– A contraction meaning There Is. There's a fly in my
soup!

Theirs
– A pronoun showing ownership. The fly in your soup is
theirs.

You're
– A contraction meaning You Are. You're sure it's their
fly?

Your
– A pronoun showing ownership. Do you want it to be your
fly?

They're
– A contraction meaning They
Are. They're
going to ask for their fly back.

There
– A location.
Fine, then set it over there.

That being said, let us continue. Not every word ending in S requires
an apostrophe. For example:

THEIRS
(again) not Their's

HERS
not Her's

These pronouns show ownership, but they are not the same as adding an
apostrophe S to a noun in order to show ownership (A possessive noun)

Mark's bassoon.

Mary's car.

The cat's pajamas.

Grapes, pickles, cards, pigeons, antelopes, buffoons – these are
all plural words (plural meaning more than one) They don't require an
apostrophe UNLESS you are going to show possession with them:

The PIGEONS' birdseed went bad and I had to buy more.

The ANTELOPES' territory is getting smaller.

(And in this case, the apostrophe goes AFTER the S because it is
possessed by more than one.)

Have I totally confused you all by now? Probably. To me, these things
are as common as breathing, but I was raised by an English professor
and a teacher, so I learned from birth how to say things correctly. I
also used to teach high school A.P. English and have been writing and
editing most of my life. This isn't hard. Really, it's not. People
want to make it hard and forget what's right and what's wrong, mostly
because it isn't important enough to them to remember. Meanwhile, in
the muddle of mistakes, your message is lost.

It's
the little mistakes that make an author look stupid. What if your
book become a best seller? The Grammar Gurus get hold of it and
ridicule you publicly for being too stupid to get your grammar right.
Don't let that happen to you. Ask questions, read books, take
classes. Learn the tools of your craft. Whether you like it or not,
that includes grammar.

Lying
in bed, Teague got a sudden case of the creeps. He made another
circuit of the house, peeping out the edge of the drapes in the
living room. With the room dark behind him, the moon reflecting off
the water, he thought he saw a person lurking in the shadow of the
dock. As he watched, a lighter flared, barely illuminating the
figure. It was a man with a shaved head. Teague couldn't see details
from his room. He had the impression that the man was solidly built.

The
idea of calling the police flickered through his mind, but he
dismissed it. Instead, he got dressed in dark jeans and a black
T-shirt. He got his survival knife, attaching it to his gun belt.
Next, he got his Glock 22 out of the locked cabinet. He had a license
to carry a concealed weapon. That went in a holster opposite the
knife. As prepared as he could be, he put on his military boots and
left the house by the side door that opened off the utility room. It
was concealed by an arched trellis covered in bougainvillea and
nearly invisible from the street. Chances were, if someone was
watching the front, they were also at the back and the door facing
the side street. He doubted they knew that this other side door
existed. He'd lived in the house nearly a week before noticing it
himself. Leaving it unlocked, he eased through the trellis, the
thorns on the bougainvillea grabbing at his clothing and uncovered
skin.

Ignoring
the stinging wounds, he moved like a shadow through the overgrown
side yard down to the street. He knew he'd be exposed crossing the
street, but the nearest light was almost a block away. There were
deep shadows from the thick water oaks that surrounded his house and
the one next door.

Becoming
part of the night, he took a circuitous route to the dock next to
his, coming at the man from the right rear. His knife was out and
across the unprotected throat before the other man knew he was there.
Left hand held the knife, right clasped his neck in an unyielding
hold.

"Who
the fuck are you and why are you watching my house?" His voice a
menacing whisper.

The
man didn't move, but Teague felt him tense. He was going to try to
get away. The knife blade turned slightly, catching the glimmer of
moonlight along the razor sharp edge. It was the only part of the
knife that shone. The rest of the blade was a dark, matte finish. An
assassin's knife and Teague knew how to use it.

"Give
me a reason," Teague growled.

The
man relaxed. "I've got friends," he murmured.

"I'm
sure you do. But you'll be dead before they can take me out. Keep
that firmly in mind. Now talk."

"Doing
what I'm told," he grunted as Teague's grip on his neck
tightened. "I don't know."

He
hyperventilated as Teague's forearm put pressure on his windpipe.

"Swear
ta God—I don't—know!" He gasped as he collapsed on the
ground. He wasn't dead, just unconscious.

Teague
went through his pockets looking for identification. He had a
driver's license on him. Teague couldn't see it clearly in the half
light, but caught part of the address. He wasn't a local. Memorizing
the face and as much of the name and address as he could, he put it
back. He wondered where the other men were. Had they seen him?
Doubtful, or he'd be surrounded.

He
took his concealed route back across the street, making his way to
his neighbor's yard. He was up and over the high wooden fence in one
smooth movement. Landing lightly on the soft turf behind his garage,
he took another watcher by surprise. This one had the time to make a
faint noise of alarm before Teague knocked him out.

He
couldn't have seen the other man's ID in the murky darkness, but he
searched him anyway. This one was armed. Teague emptied the magazine
into his palm, ejecting the chambered round before tossing the gun on
the man's chest. He pocketed the bullets.

The
first man had mentioned friends. Teague assumed that meant at least
one more. Since he had another door facing the side street, he
figured the third man was probably watching it. There was heavy cover
around it. That would play to his advantage as well. He thought of
the place that would be the most obvious ambush spot and headed for
it. He wasn't disappointed to find a third man standing by the
birdbath under the oak tree, surrounded by a thick stand of ferns,
hibiscus and other tropical plants.

It
wasn't the place Teague would have chosen, there were too many
mosquitoes and noseeums hiding in the undergrowth. He hoped the guy
was getting eaten alive. A slow, feral grin spread across his face as
the man swatted multiple times, grumbling loudly about getting
bitten. The grousing lasted about 20 more seconds before Teague had
his arm locked behind him, his face grinding into the bark of the oak
tree.

"Who
are you?" He snarled low in the man's ear. "I swear, I will
end you and your buddies if you don't talk."

"This
is your place?"

"Why
the fuck would I be here if it wasn't? Talk!" He emphasized the
importance by slamming his thigh against the man's knee from the
rear. A grunt told him that it had connected with the tree. "And
don't give me 'I don't know' like the guy by the docks."

Tuesday, November 08, 2016

"Ms.
Kendrake, they're expecting you upstairs on the fifth floor, room
fifty forty-two. There will be someone at the desk up there who can
direct you to the correct room. You'll need a name tag. One second."

She
printed out a name tag, handing it to Alyssa with a smile. Alyssa
smiled in return, taking the name tag, attaching it to the lapel of
her pale pink pantsuit. The desk on the fifth floor was unoccupied,
so Alyssa waited until a tall swarthy skinned man walked by.

"Excuse
me," she said quietly.

He
turned to her with a smile. "May I help you?"

"Yes,
I'm looking for the casting director of Deserted. I was told
to go to room fifty forty-two, but I don't know where that is."

"I'd
be happy to show you, Miss Kendrake. I'm going there myself. My name
is Barry." He shook her hand politely.

"Thank
you, Barry."

She
followed him down the hall, admiring the view. She didn't usually
allow herself to stare at a man, but he didn't seem to notice. He was
incredibly well built and his clothing set off his physique well. He
wore dark gray dress pants, a dove gray shirt and no suit coat. His
tie was a blend of gray and blue, like damp watercolors swirled
together. He looked more like a professional athlete than someone who
worked in an office.

Barry
chuckled to himself. It wasn't often a pretty woman came in the
office and watched his ass as he walked down the hall. Strutting
casually, he emphasized his swagger a little, to keep her looking.
She thought he wasn't aware of her gaze, but he was. He didn't mind
the lingering caress of her eyes. As a matter of fact, it was not
only flattering, but a distinct thrill.

Alyssa
watched the muscular man walk, thinking how long it had been since
she'd had one of her own to admire up close. Blinking rapidly, she
nearly ran into him when he stopped in front of room 5042. He held
the door partially open, standing not quite far enough away for her
to walk easily through. He leaned casually against it, one arm raised
well above her head. Smiling down at her, he invited her into the
room with a smile and a hand at the small of her back.

Alyssa
had to turn slightly to face him, nearly brushing up against him.
With a shy smile, she eased by his arm. Eyes demurely downcast, she
glanced up at him like Lauren Bacall. Barry felt his pulse quicken as
he closed the door behind them.

"Everyone,
this is Alyssa Kendrake. She's here about Deserted.
She's our next appointment."

"Welcome,
Alyssa," a smiling, dark haired woman greeted her. "Please
have a seat. I'm Kimberly Crimson, casting director. You've met Barry
Sebring. Next to me is Mickey Stafford and to the left of him is
Grace Bing. Why don't you begin by telling us a little about
yourself."

Alyssa
took the indicated chair. It was softer than it looked and she sank
more deeply than she anticipated, nearly losing her balance. Righting
herself with difficulty, she sat on the edge so she wouldn't have
another mishap.

She
looked quickly at the people in the room, sizing them up as best she
could. Barry was tall, athletic, handsome. Kimberly wasn't much over
five feet, slightly rounded, with soft dark hair and eyes. Grace was
somewhat older than the others. Graying hair was pulled back in a
sleek ponytail. Her half moon glasses rested on her nose. Mickey, who
couldn't have been much older than her high school students, was
probably an intern.

"I'm
Alyssa Kendrake. I'm thirty-two and a school teacher, or at least I
was until all the budget cuts. To be specific, I am an out of work,
high school, English teacher. I'm not really sure why I'm here. I'm
not an actress."

"You
filled out an application for a clerical position," Kimberly
answered. "There was a picture with your application. I was
going through the files and liked your look. It was my decision to
ask you in."

"Oh,
well that's great! I'm desperate to find something. The wolf is
scratching at the door as we speak."

They
smiled politely, shuffling papers in front of them. Barry stared
openly, the others kept glancing at her, scribbling notes on their
papers. No one said anything for quite awhile.

"What
else can you tell us about yourself?" Barry asked suddenly. "Are
you married? Seeing anyone?"

Alyssa
got the impression that those were more than casual questions. She
couldn't see what they had to do with anything, but turned to Barry
with a friendly smile.

"I'm
single, not for lack of trying. Why? Is this job contingent upon my
being single?"

"No,
I was just curious. Purely from a business point of view, of course,"
he added quickly, glancing at Kimberly.